


...In the Rain.

by TheRedAssassin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Dysphoria, Body Modification, Corrupted Lance (Voltron), Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, False Identity, Good Lotor (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Identity Issues, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Lance (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Langst, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Quintessence (Voltron), Quintessence Corruption, References to Depression, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slow Burn, my friend threatened me with death but yet I’m here posting this, no beta we die like men, poor lance, this is all haggar’s fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedAssassin/pseuds/TheRedAssassin
Summary: It’s been months since they battled Zarkon and Lance’s disappearance from Voltron. Despite searching high and low in the recess of space, not a single clue exists to explain what happened to him. With morale low and a desperate need to form voltron; the team has to make the difficult decision to declare him dead. And find a new Paladin to pilot the blue lion. Keith refuses to give up though, believing Lance is still alive somewhere out there.Something is very very wrong with him. Lance can feel it deep within himself, as if his twisted reflection couldn’t already tell him that much.
Relationships: Allura & Lance (Voltron), Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), maybe?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. Corrosion II.

Glancing to the sky reveals nothing beyond pale yellow of the unknown atmosphere. No tale-tail signs of purple and red streaking across the sky, or large blocky shapes of star crafts entering the stratosphere. Only olive green clouds floating high beyond the squat spindly trees. For another hour he stares up, watching for any signs of unworldly beings or objects beyond himself. Time stretches out, as he waits in silence, praying that nothing comes or if it does, the thicket hides his crashed pod. The sky washes in oranges as a neon pink sun rises in the east, the light bright and turning the shadows into a violent maroon. Breathing a sigh he stands, his knees creaking in protest as restraightens himself from his crouch.

Despite how warm colored the sky is, the air is cool, akin to spring as he digs through the downed escape pod. Very little comes from it as the pod had been damaged from the attack on the carrier. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he might have spotted the pod already shooting off the occasional sparks but the second two guards had seen him, he had dove in condemning him to the already malfunctioning pod. He does pull out two packets of something mushy in a silver juice-pouch shaped container covered in thick purple writing and a thin blanket material that he quickly turns into a makeshift nap sack. Another glance over the controls confirms them to be smashed from impact; no hope of contacting any help yet. With any luck some civilization will be residing on the planet.

That that single thought drives him to search the area, careful to not lose the pod in case he needed shelter from the elements. He’s awarded as he comes to a clearing, the surrounding trees far taller with bone white bark that spindled towards the sky. Shimmery blue orbs hang off the lower branches. Upon closer inspection reveals them to be apple-sized fleshy fruit mostly firm; a peach feels like a fair comparison. Making a mental note, he circles the large space. Three fourths of the way around he spots the dull shine of something metallic being strangled in dark purple undergrowth. Carefully circumventing the object has him spotting a door. It’s rusty and tangled in weeds, but still a hatch.

He’s quick to clear the debris, the dull vegetation easily moved. there isn’t anything to identify what exactly the huge mound is beyond the door. Deciding to chance it he twists the handle on the hatch. The hinges groan at the movement. Inside is barely lit, dim white lights lighting the area with bright blue emergency lights on the floor leading to the door.

“Hello?”

Nothing responds to his inquiry.

Taking a deep breath he steps inside. A thick smell of dust tickles his nose as he follows one of the blue lines. The hallways are thin as he makes his way to the end of lights, a faint blue tint lights the large room. Pockets of orange and yellow blink. Stepping towards he shoves a clunky switch up. Bright lights light the control room. He squints as he pokes and prods at the multitude of buttons, switches, and shifters. One of them forces a crackle and then pops as the engines sputter before clicking off. An aggravated groan comes out of him.

Fiddling with another electric board yields only a broken radio, one that occasionally picks up bits and pieces of chatter but mostly only static cackles through. Speaking through the microphone provides no sound beyond a tap as it turns on and off. Ignoring the other panels he turns, nearly jumping when he spots a slumped space suit on the ground. Poking it makes it fall over with little more than old dust spilling out. Searching the rest of the now brightly lit ship reveals little more than dust and aged furniture. Every room seems intact beyond the engine room with signs of an explosion and long extinguished fire.

Slumping into a bench, he sets his head on the table, the crook of his arms providing padding. Whatever passed as the food making mechanism had been destroyed leaving only the questionable galra food rations. Setting the makeshift pack on the table he makes his way over to what was probably the bathroom. The lights flicker on as he enters. Fidgeting with the nozzle has a clear liquid spritzing out in abundance making him quickly shift the flow to a slow drizzle.

Filling his cupped hands he splashes his face. The grittiness clinging to him being washed away. Getting another makeshift cup, he sips at the liquid pleased to learn it’s actually water. Letting the excess drop into the sink he eyes the shower. Instead of starting the shower he elects to get out of the tight bodysuit the Garla had outfitted him with. For a few seconds he struggles to find a zipper, eventually giving up he instead attempts to find a seam within the fabric. Surprisingly he finds two midway on both his upper limbs near his shoulders.

Peeling the rubbery fabric proves difficult with how suction cupped the fabric feels. A little before his elbow he gets his first peak of skin. Which is… off. He chalks up the paleness to being in a big black rubber glove and probably didn’t get enough sunlight in the big glass tube they were keeping him in. Pulling further has a few scars that suspiciously look close to burns mar his inner elbow and tapper out till mid forearm. Even more of the casing off shows a similar if not smaller burn by his wrists and tiny thin scars that circle his actual writs. The most interesting thing though is that another sdglove underneath the first covers on three fingers with tiny little belts keeping it in place. Tiny little black stickies cover the fingertips of his uncovered fingers; ring and pinky respectively.

The stickies peel off with ease, the strange glove not so much. Attempting to simply slip is off only leaves him with an aching palm leaving him no choice but to unbuckle the cord and dislodge whatever keeps them stationary. The buckles are easy, but pulling off the glove is painful. He had broken his arm when he fell out of a tree when he was six. His abuela nearly rang his neck for that. But that single instance of broken bone couldn’t compare to this. Red hot pain laced through his palm into his fingers and arm.

There was no blood, bone, or loose tissue sitting on the floor.

Just the black glove.

And the exposed joints of a mechanical prosthetic.

Dully he stares at it, unable to process what exactly he’s seeing. A mantra of doubt swirling in his mind. He can’t stop the shaking as he brings his left hand back into his view. Nearly his whole palm is gone, along with part of his wrist. The only thing left are his two outer fingers, bright red scaring thick and twisted along the edges of where the rest of his hand should be.

In a mad scramble he paws at the other arm glove, his whole body violently trembling. Two dull nails scratch at the crease, tearing and ripping in an attempt to dislodge the glove faster. Surprisingly it works, the glove quickly pulled a part in a frantic need to know. The same type of burn like scars are on this arm too, but more scaring exists more than healthy skin. Darker and angrier marks cresten his wrist and a single circular one edges near the middle of his palm.

Glancing up he spots a panel. In haste he attempts to touch it, only for a sudden crack to appear, ripping the equipment into two. The lights flicker only to die a few seconds later as thick cracks steadily splits the metal wall. They slow to a stop before the ceiling. Breathing heavy he turns to the now glossy wall, his body giving pause in shock.

The person in this “mirror” can’t be him. He has chocolate brown hair, a warm tanned complexion, and blue eyes that mimic the oceans near his home. This person doesn’t have any of that, they’re more of a ghost than a person. White long hair is slick to their pale head, thick and thin lines of pink scars mark around his neck with distinct marks by his eye and mouth, and the most eerie red eyes that almost seemed to glow in the darkness. Timidly he walks forward, unbelieving as he watches it closer as well, tiredness and stress more visible closer. Lifting his hands, the ghost does the same, miming every movement.

He feels the hiss of air leaving as his lungs refuse to take any in. Clawing at his chest he backs away, the sour dank taste of panic and freshly spilt tears weighing on his tongue. He barely registers when he’s fallen over into the shower, dark spots fluttering as the world gets further and further away.


	2. Sublimation

If you asked what was an acceptable margin of error for success, the disappearance of Lance McCain in exchange of a near fatal blow on Zarkon was completely fine according to team Voltron. Or it was increasingly feeling like that as less and less the group tried looking for Lance. The only one in the group that still refused to accept him gone was Keith, who had gone out to re-search the quadrant that Pidge originally had suggested was Lance’s most likely location. After the battle and the discovery of the empty blue lion Shiro had later gone into detail about how the black lion had “taken” him to another planet. At the time the working theory was that blue had somehow transported Lance someplace safe but without solid proof and the inability to ask the lion herself, they were left searching the recess of space.

“Any type of visual out there?” Pidge yawns. 

“Nothing so far.” Keith answers, re-searching a cluster of small asteroids. 

“You’ve been out there for hours.” They state. Keith can already feel the next oncoming suggestion. He can feel his teeth grinding and the creaking of his suit.  
“Maybe come back to the castle? For a break?” 

“And didn’t you calculate that Lance’s suit would only have enough oxygen to support him for 11 weeks? Maybe twelve tops?” He can’t stop the bite and bitterness in his voice. “It’s almost three months now. This could be Lance's last chance.”

Keith ignores the ping of dread that it’s already too late. Weren’t Pidge and Hunk closer to Lance than himself? Why was he the only one actively seeking out Lance still? What if someone else had gone missing? Like Shiro? Allura? Himself? Would they all still be acting like this? (He wishes no, but something deep and dark inside him tells him that yes they would.)

Pidge only sighs. He can hear them shuffling around. “Keith.” They start, their voice calm as if they know what they’ll say next will set him off, “The likelihood of us finding Lance al—” , they pause as if attempting to swallow the fact themselves, “— For us to find Lance after so long is statistically low.” They quietly end. 

“So you’re giving up?” His voice, icy.

“No, I'm looking at it realistically. Better to not know than to find a dead body—”

“And what if it was your brother? Would you still be acting the same way?”

“He’s different.”

“No that’s what you like to believe.” He knows he’s overstepped his bounds, but he can’t seem to care. “You only have some old footage from a year ago. For all you know you could be finding a corpse.”

“You know what? Fuck you Keith,” Pidge’s tone glacier cold. “At least I’m somewhat rational in my beliefs. If you want to keep looking in space forever be my guest, but let the rest of us mourn like adults.” 

The feed crackles off, leaving Keith seething in fury. His hands ache at how tightly he’s holding the controls. That was it huh? They’ve given up. He wants to call Pidge back, to call them a hypocrite. But he knows a lost cause when he sees one. It had been difficult enough to get someone to come out with him to search. Now he probably shot himself in the foot with anyone else coming out here and helping him. He won’t take back what he said, but… maybe he had been a little harsh.

He groans, it morphing into a sigh as he pinches his brow.

His communications chirp at a new incoming call.

“Hey Keith.” Shiro’s calm voice calls through the speakers. “You okay? Pidge just came back.”

“Just peachy.” Keith drops his hands from his face.

For a few seconds, silence eats between them. 

“Look.” Shiro starts, his face morphing into a pained expression. “I know that this is hard. It’s hard for everyone. But you can’t just—”

“Twelve hours.” Keith interrupts, looking into Shiro’s holographic eyes, “Twelve hours is all the time Lance has before he suffocates.”

“Keith.”Shiro starts a particular tone Keith recognizes. It’s a tone that someone told a teary-eyed seven year old that their father wasn’t coming back and they were sorry, of broken promises and empty sorry’s of orphanage caregiver, and of garrison personnel lying through their teeth. It’s a tone that’s ingrained into his head and even though he can hear the sincerity in Shiro’s voice, the tone sets Keith on edge just like every other time he’s heard it. “If it was me that was missing. I would want you to grieve and move on…And I think Lance would too.” Shiro finishes after Keith lacks to respond. 

Unlike earlier with Pidge, Keith holds his tongue unwilling to lash out at yet another person. 

“Tonight there’s going to be a dinner at the castle for delegates from freed planets. I know it really isn't’ your thing so I’m sending you out on a solo mission.” 

“A solo mission?” Keith quirks an eyebrow at that. “You never send anyone on solo missions.”

“Well this is a first time thing. And I’m trusting you to complete it. Majority of us have our hands tied with the dinner. Besides I think you would rather do this than be there.”

Keith snorts at the understatement. Yeah he doesn’t want to be there while there’s still a sliver of chance of finding Lance. Honestly he’ll just do this mission after the twelve hours are up. (Especially when he has Lance safe in Red with him.)

“So the mission?” Keith asks impatiently, his foot tapping.

“You’ll only have twelve hours to complete this. Are you sure you can handle that?”

Keith bites his tongue. Fine, he thinks, I’ll do it quick and find Lance. He doesn’t respond to Shiro but Shiro continues after a pause anyways.

“The mission is to find this person,” an image pops on the screen and for a second Keith can’t breath, “they’ve been missing for several months now and it’s imperative that they’re found.”

Keith stares at the goofy smile on Lance’s lips while his arm is slug over Keith’s shoulder. The photo had been a random shot taken by Pidge on a planet they had just liberated. The inhabitants had thrown a parade and dinner. Lance had been flirting with the girls of the world at the time. He had seen something in Keith’s eyes apparently and thrown his arm over Keith, asking “What’s wrong Samurai?” Pidge had come along right at that moment, and snapped the shot. The only reason he’d badgered Pidge over it was that he had a small smile on his face for some reason and didn’t need any more ammo for Shiro to tease him. 

“And if your mission is unsuccessful… Then we honor his time and life with us all. Can you agree to that?” 

Keith nods, “I can. But I’ll find him before that happens.”

“Good luck out there then.” Shiro says as the communication cuts off with one last chirp. 

“I’ll find you lance.” Keith says in the quiet.

~~~

“Prince Lotor.” A bubbly voice calls from further down the bridge. “The red kitty is going further into space.”

“Should we prepare an attack on it?” Another gruffer voice asks.

“No.” A smooth baritone voice answers. 

“Follow it. I want to know what it’s up to.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just got into watching the show earlier this week. Had this idea right after watching season one and was pleasantly surprised that end of season two actually had a good set up time for this fic. This is technically an Au of an Au of an Au. So basically a rabbit hole. 
> 
> If you can already figure out why this is considered crack, i give kudos to you. If not, it won’t really effect the story. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I just had this version just constantly buzzing in my head and needed to get it out. 
> 
> Also why hasn’t anybody like made any fics where we talk about quintessence corruption happening to any of the main cast? Like that’s some *mah* excellent angst material right there my friend.


End file.
